Deprived
by Doublebee
Summary: He just can't seem to sleep.
1. Appointment

Sleep is a lovely thing that, sadly, Soul no longer enjoys.

In the past, there had always been late nights, for Soul and Maka, both. The nights where homework and studies seemed to consume them and sleep had to be feigned off until wee hours of the early, early morning. Nights where the scythe would lay in bed, and simply stare at the ceiling for hours and hours, until sleep finally seeped into his eyelids, and by that time, Maka was already hovering over him with a soothing, "Time to get up, Soul" to which he'd slowly slink from under his covers and start the day.

He wishes those nights had never affected him. He also wishes he slept every chance he ever got, because now, the mere thought of sleep turns him into a snapping, rip-roaring mad, mess.

Soul also knows Maka suffers from his lack of this activity as well. He doesn't mean to lose his cool when she _begs_ for him to get some sleep, because she needs a mentally-sufficient weapon on the battlefield tomorrow. He never tries to tune her out when she explains to him that after three days of lost sleep, the mind begins to hallucinate and the person ends up passing out from exhaustion. But he can't do it.

He just can't sleep.

Because what lies for him in his mind is his worst nightmares, being brought to life by the black blood behind traumatized eyelids. And no one can save him from the horrors it creates. Missing eyeballs, mind-numbing pain, unfathomable deaths of loved ones, and blood stain his once-beloved dreams, turning them into the driving factor of night-terrors and insomnia.

It is in remembering this, that Soul finds himself in the position of "Worst Weapon in the History of Fucking Ever" and cannot help the guilt it stirs up in the pit of his knotted stomach.

"Soul, it's almost midnight."

~O-O-O-O~

The scythe grunts in acknowledgement at his meister's statement. It is, indeed, eleven fifty-two in the evening hours, well after her own "bedtime". Which, isn't really a bedtime, according to Maka, as much as it is "necessary to any normal teenager".

Yeah, any normal teenager who isn't afraid to actually close his eyes and conk out.

"Staying up?" She asks quietly as her quiet footsteps pad closer to him on the couch. It silently occurs to Soul that she's only gotten up in order to check on him. He feels like a sick child whose mother is too worried to sleep a full night herself. He doesn't enjoy the position, either.

He nods at her question, though, a quick nod as he turns back to the notepad resting on his thigh, a pen weaved boredly between his fingers. Crimson eyes turn down to his lap, almost embarrassed to look at her.

A sigh fills the heavy silence between them, it's from Maka. The weapon slowly looks up from his socked feet to see the ashen blonde hanging over the edge of the couch he's sitting on, emerald orbs glancing tiredly at him.

"You really should…"

Soul doesn't offer her an answer. He instead starts scribbling random music notes (which, seriously don't make a bit of sense, now that he looks at them, but _she_ seems to be buying it.) down on the yellow notepad in his lap, trying his best to tune out her worried wavelength, which only makes his head throb due to the demon that lurks inside.

He does respond, however, when he feels the right side of the couch sink down, and turns to see her sitting beside him. Her wavelength is calming, however, it makes his head ring a bit, and he fights to keep a grimace off his features as he stares at her.

"What're you doing?"

"Staying here with you. Wha'zit look like I'm doing?" She answers, drawing her legs up criss-cross under her as she looks at him with tired eyes. She's exhausted, he knows it, and the remorse slaps at the back of his mind, unrelenting.

"Go to bed," Soul murmurs coolly, scrawling nothing but jagged shapes on the sides of his notepad paper. Maka yawns softly, scooting closer so that she's leaning on his shoulder a bit, looking down at the notepad herself.

"What's that?"

He throws the pad to the coffee table with a loud _slap! _before propping his feet up on the table as well, slouching into the couch. He shrugs at her question, blood-red irises staring off into the dimly-lit space in front of him. He dully notices she does the same, though, _she stares at him instead the entire time she does it._

"Gonna sleep yet?" She asks tiredly, stifling a yawn with her fingers.

He shakes his head, his long legs crossing smoothly, right over left, as they sit. The silence between weapon and meister is calm and welcomed, both praying it will leave the other in the grasp of sleep. Minutes pass, and Maka finds herself fighting to keep her eyes open. Just when she's about to throw in the towel and leave him to sulk in his misery, her lap is crushed with a dull _thunk_. She jumps, but quickly sighs in more than one relief as she sees her scythe, out cold in her lap.

"Idiot…" she mumbles, her voice thick with sleep as her hand comes to run through soft, color-less locks. Soul's breathing is so mellow she believes he could pass for a corpse. _But_, she adds mentally, _not-sleeping in over two days does that to a person._

She admits, he looks like hell. There are bags under his eyes, his voice has been cracking from lack of rest, even his hair seems less… gravity-defying, for lack of a better word. He's a wreck, and everyone's noticed, all their friends included. (_Even_ Black*Star.) But she never tells them what's wrong, and neither does he. It's only referred to as, "late night last night" or "just couldn't sleep right". Both Soul and Maka refuse to tell the truth, Soul for his reputation and self-consciousness and Maka for her loyalty to her weapon she oh-so-desperately believes she needs to repay him with. It's a silent agreement they share over the topic, and although it is never spoken, Maka understands his graditude for her kindness.

Soul continues to sleep in her lap, even as she strokes between his shoulder blades as if she were petting Blair. A tired smile cracks on her lips, and she finds her fingers running deeper through his hair, just to add comfort as he lie in a place that so easily could pass for Hell itself.

He turns in her lap, now facing upwards, his head tilted back over her thighs. His wavelength spikes. His face contorts in pain—_or is it frustration?_ —Maka notes as her palm comes to rest on his sweat-damp forehead.

Either way, she knows his mental torture has already began.

The girl is silent, the only sound in the entire apartment is the rustling of Soul's clothes scraping against hers and the sofa as he wickedly whips around. It bothers her that she can't do much to stop his suffering. Maybe that's the reason she's coddling him when he's least aware of it? It doesn't do the scythe much good, anyway, because he's still a whimpering, tossing, feverish mess.

The jolts of his wavelength surge through both parties, Maka feeling it from the tips of her hairs down to her toes, which curl in reflex as she cringes. It's not a pleasant sensation, she admits, because his wavelength is so frantic and loud it doesn't know what to do with itself.

After only about twenty minutes of horror-filled sleep, ruby eyes slam open, a scream barely stifled with a bite of his lip. It takes Soul a moment to remember who he is, where he is, and why Maka's here, but when his mind recovers that information, he's fighting to push off her lap.

She frowns, her arm holding his chest down so he can't get off her. "Go back to sleep."

"No." He grits out, more than just a little irritated. Can't she understand that sleeping -for him- is like ripping out a person's fingernails? _Obviously_ _not_, he adds dully to himself.

He's surprised when she shoves him up off her lap to sit up, herself getting off the couch entirely. She does an awkward dance, keeping one hand on his back as she leans over, and drapes his right arm over the back of her neck, hoisting him up. Soul blinks a few times, confused, but staggers after her as she begins to walk, because there's not much else he could do, unless he feels like face-planting with Maka on the freezing-ass cold hardwood floor.

It doesn't take her long to strangle his bedroom door open, nudging it open with her knee and dropping her partner off at his bed, to which he plops down face-first against, groaning in relief. The couch had left his back sore and whining in complaint, and the heavenly comforter and pillows are a good foil in comparison.

Soul expects her to leave, after this. She doesn't. In fact, she does the _opposite_ of what he's expecting, and sinks to her knees against his bed, a sigh breeching pinked lips as a small palm rubs along his spine in slow, soothing circles. It makes him forget the belt buckle digging into his lower belly, and the fact his uniform shirt isn't usual night attire, because he's memorized by her ministrations.

He admits, he also hates this. Soul doesn't enjoy playing the injured one of the partnership. Ever. It's not his style, and it's _definitely_ not cool. He's the protector. It's his job, hell, it's part of his _genetic code_ to protect Maka, and keep _her_ safe. The other way around, it makes Soul think of putting his socks on inside-out. It's just not right. And, although she coos him with choruses of "don't worry about it," and "I owe you one, right?" it's just awkward and wrong in his eyes.

But he's too fucking tired right now to fight her, and if she keeps rubbing that one spot between his shoulder blades, he's definitely going to pass out without taking off his uniform pants, and he couldn't care less.

There's a soft whisper of, "try an' get some sleep, alright?" before Soul's eyelids finally lose their battle with his needs, and he finds himself deep in sleep without whining in protest.

Maka smiles peacefully to herself once she takes notice of his slowed breathing, and haulted fidgeting. She feels accomplished for the fact _she_ is the reason he's finally decided to get some sleep, and pride nearly beams from her. After a few more precious moments of rubbing his back, she decides that her partner is more important than her perfect sleep record, and that soothing him is one thing she'd never mind in the slightest. With a slip of the knees, she down on her bottom, legs sprawled under her as her hand continues to rub his back, her wavelength focusing on his. It's rather calm, for the time being, and she prays it stays that way for the rest of the night.

~O-O-O-O~

It only takes a moment for the pure blackness of his mind to become a picture; a scene.

It's a battlefield. One he doesn't quite remember, but he's knows it's one he's fought at with Maka. He remembers the odd-looking cobblestone road, and the dim lighting fixtures in the streets of the town. For some reason, he can even smell the thick evening air, like the lurking smell of August in the late summer nights. It's almost comforting, and he even grins when he sees her familiar face as she pokes out from the shadows of a street lantern, brushing her blue skirt off and pink tie.

When he tries to speak to her, though, his voice is gone. He doesn't make a sound, no matter how much he strains his vocal chords. _Wonderful_, he thinks bitterly, _no communication, always fucking perfect._

She approaches him, and when she speaks, her voice seems, off. It's not in the usual tone of a C-major chord, or any of the usual tones it peaks or slopes to when she speaks. Her words are jumbled together, barely making sense, but he's not really paying attention to her, anyway. She just seems generally… off. Her chest seems at least a size and a half too small (from what he's usually staring at half the time) and her hands seem sharper under her gloves, as if her fingertips are pure bone.

But, she rattles on and on, words that don't seem to make much sense to Soul. Perhaps he's relieving a memory and can't replace her speech? He's not sure, but he must admit, he's amazed with this odd version of his meister.

When her gloved hands run about her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, he watches intently, amazed. Pink lips begin to move slower, before she's just making little mewls of noises, as if she's stretching as she touches her flawless skin.

It's not bothersome to him. In fact, it's a bit arousing, the way her lips move in semi-silent moans, a wide grin stretching from cheek to cheek. He almost leans forward to yank her hands from her face, to smash their lips together in wonderful unison-!

Until she plunges her unusually long point and middle fingers, on each hand, into her beautiful eyes, gouging them out in a bird-like fashion until they remain harpooned on each of her hands. Gloved fingers scrape down her flawless cheekbones, leaving trails of crimson in their wake on pale skin. Blood sprays and drips from her face, and after she decides she's done with that, she opens her bloodied arms in a hug to him, her mouth clearly forming the words:

"Don't leave me?"

He screams. He screams so loud, he doesn't even notice he's screaming until he wakes up to hands pressing his back comfortingly, worried echoes of "Soul! Soul! What's wrong?" ringing in his ears from God knows where. It takes a moment, before he finally stops the uncool screech from rattling his vocal chords, and he breathes deeply, looking to his right, where Maka sits. He does a double-take, before dropping his head against his pillow with a huff of a sigh.

Skilled hands are already rubbing his back as she kneels up higher to lean into him. Her hair tickles his bent elbow, but he doesn't move. Embarrassment has sewn him to the spot, and he tries to hide flushed cheeks from her mothering gaze.

There's a heavy silence between them, but it's a welcomed one. Viridian eyes flicker to his alarm clock, red numbers blazing a harsh four twenty-three in the morning. She reaches over him to the nightstand, switching off his already-set alarm.

"What're you doing?" Soul tiredly snaps, though it sounds more like an upset toddler whining about not going to Disneyland.

She sits on his bed, because she decides her knees hurt way too fucking much, and if she lies beside him, she can hold him without having questions asked… she thinks.

"You're not going to class tomorrow."

"…Why?" He tries his hardest not to sound too excited. She's only allowed him to skip classes when he's running a fever, puking his lungs out, or if battle injuries (like his scar, when it was still an open wound) begin acting up. Never for black blood, though.

"We're seeing Professor Stein, instead."

That's a thought he's not willing to consider too closely.

"No. No _way_."

She shoots a sneer at him, crossing her arms with a forceful shrug." You're not the meister, you don't have a choice in the matter, Soul." His name is like poison on her lips, the way she spits the one-syllable word out. Like a snake, choking its venom into its prey.

"That's with orders, _meister_." He fires back at her, silver eyebrows drawn together as he scowls.

"Then it's an order."

Crimson eyes stare at her for a moment, before he only shakes his head into his pillow. Somehow, though, he's not sure how, they've come closer on his bed, and their sides are pressed together. He feels her breathing, and he notes silently that it's the same sort of breathing control she uses when she gets worked up. He props himself up on his elbows to look at her completely, sighing, before nudging over to rest his head on her shoulder.

It's a silent agreement, one they share through mind and heart. Maka finds her fingers tangling in his hair gently, toying with thin strands of snow. His rapid heartbeat settles into a calm gallop of a bass, thumping as he lets his mind wonder. In fact, he gets so caught up in analyzing his thoughts, he doesn't even notice when he slips under the spell of sleep once more, and pretends not to notice the ghost of a kiss his meister leaves on his cheek before she curls up, and finds herself doing the same.  
>_<p>

**Yeah so… Yeah. I've had this idea in my head for awhile, so I've decided to give it a shot. Kinda hope it doesn't suck as much as I think it might. Er… yeah. All I have to say about it.**

**Anyway, review, don't review, whatever helps you sleep at night. :3**


	2. Stay

**Alright, for those of you who are interested in 'Deprived', you'll be getting around monthly updates on this, for now. School is coming to a close now, and I need to focus on grades a little more, and, these are pretty massive chapters, if you haven't noticed, so they take a little longer to write/beta/post. **

**But, I plan on keeping this going, it's the first massive story idea I've had in months. So, don't lose faith in me, even if one chapter blows?**

~O-O-O-O~

The smell of metal and papyrus makes his head spin.

Maka hadn't let them take the bike here. She made them _walk_ the terrible two and a half miles to Stein's lab, at a whooping seven-thirty in the morning. She didn't even let him scarf down some breakfast, only telling him that "Stein _could_ want to do some blood tests, Soul." and left it at that, making her scythe tired, irritable, _and_ go hungry.

And now, Soul growls inaudible cusses at his meister as he sits in the middle of a patchwork-covered lab room, on top of a cold-as-shit metal lab-type table. It's uncomfortable and freezing in the room, and Soul believes that if he's here any longer, he'll begin to suffer the same type of madness and mental instability as Stein does. He shivers, a very uncool action of him, seeing as Maka mistakes it as an action of fear, and she comes to stand beside the table, patting his forearm comfortingly.

"He said he'd be right back, Soul." She tells him, frowning as he pretty much _ignores_ her and her reassuring words. That's not earning him any brownie points, and she makes him aware of that by pinching the sensitive skin in the bend of his elbow, making him kick the bottom of the table with a snarl.

"What the hell?" The scythe spits, ripping his arm out of her gloved hands. If he wanted to be in pain, he'd just go back to bed! "Don't pinch!"

Maka's about to rip him a new one, her face furrowed in a sharp frown, but she doesn't get the chance to scream her share of curse words and insults at him, because when the door behind them opens with a loud '_creeeeaaaak~_' she's scrambling to turn around and see their professor in the doorway, holding a clipboard in his hand.

"Well?" Maka asks, hasty for an answer. Worry makes her voice light and shaky.

The elder meister sets his items down on a small, what looks like a freaking _dissection_ table, and glances at the clipboard as he strolls closer to Soul, looking the weapon over quickly before he even begins to speak.

"How long has it been since we patched that scar up again?" Stein asks, rather monotone, as he gives Soul a stern gaze. The scythe thinks a moment, before responding in question.

"Ah, a month or so…? Something like tha-"

His meister answers for him; she's had _no_ problem remembering the moment she ruined his chest, and quite possibly his life.

"Three weeks."

The professor nods, turning back to his clipboard for more information as he rubs his jaw, almost like a physical tick, before he nods again with a small grunt, deciding on what to tell him, and how to tell him, a trait all doctors in the profession must carry.

"I think it's just a case of the 'creepy-crawlies'." He tells the weapon-meister pair. Maka seems thrilled with the answer, while Soul is debating on whether to transform and slaughter _himself_, or the professor that quite literally just diagnosed him with something a goddammed five year-old wouldn't be caught speaking out loud in public to anyone.

"In that case, you two can go. Just try to relax, Soul, drink tea or listen to music before you try to sleep." Stein tacks on. Soul only mumbles something despicable under his breath about 'insane-as-fuck professors' and 'made-up illnesses' as he leaps off the exam table, slips his coat back on, and tugs Maka's arms demandingly.

"Actually, Soul, you go ahead home, I've got to ask Professor Stein another question." She tells him, and Soul only looks bored. He shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he takes off, but not before telling her: "Don't take too long," and he disappears from the lab looking much too happy to be doing so.

Stein is already set on cleaning up the area, putting things back into cabinets and papers into their manila folders. Maka bites her lip as she steps closer to him, fingers playing nervously with the hem of her blue skirt as she speaks up.

"Professor Stein… This has been going on for a long time, a-and I didn't, I just wanted—"

She is interrupted when he turns his back to her for a moment, before handing her a small, orange pill bottle, filled with little periwinkle blue, diamond-shaped pills. The female meister blinks, making a fraction of a noise as he places the bottle in her hand, then sets his clipboard on the table Soul had been sitting on, rubbing the bridge of his nose a bit after the action.

"They're sedatives," he tells her plainly as he takes off his glasses in order to clean them on his white lab coat. "He only needs to take one to be out for a good six to eight hours."

"Soul won't take these." She answers with a frown, holding them back out to Stein regretfully. "He doesn't think there's anything wrong. Or, if he does, he doesn't want help with it. He thinks he can handle it on his own..."

He doesn't accept her offering, and instead pushes her hand back towards her.

"Maka, this isn't just nightmares and stress-disorders. This is serious. If the sleepless nights continue, his life could be in danger." He pauses, sighing heavily before adding, "If Soul refuses to take them, force him. Or, slip them into his food. He _needs_ them, or he's going to end up back here for much longer than a few hours next time."

This news makes Maka's heart race in her chest. He _needs_ them? What could be so horribly wrong with her partner that she might have to lie to his face, and sneak pills into his food? These questions and many more make her head go a mile a minute, and before she knows it, she's already asked out loud:

"Does it have something to do with the Black Blood?"

A solemn nod and placement of glasses back on the professor's face, and the female realizes how serious just a simple case of insomnia has gotten. She curses herself, for not taking Soul to Stein earlier, for letting him ever get hurt in the first place, for not thinking of this before!

"I'll tell you what. Stay home with him today, seeing as you've already missed your first two classes. Bring him back next week, and I'll make sure to get you more of the sedatives and we'll do a full blood work-up on him." He tells her, already sensing the fact Maka might even begin to cry, due to the tenseness of her posture and the death grip she has on that pill bottle between her bony fingers.

"…Okay." She answers, almost coldly to him. Too robotic to carry real emotion. "Thank you, Professor Stein."

The man pats her right shoulder as she begins to turn away, smiling calmly at her worried-stricken facial expression. "Don't worry about him too much, Maka. Soul's dealt with plenty already, he'll be fine. Go get some rest."

She realizes she, too, probably has bags under her eyes, not as severe as Soul's, but still noticeable. She nods at him with a tiny, tiny smile, before taking off out of the lab. Once she meets the face of the cool, outside air, she takes a huge breath and begins her lonely walk back home.

~O-O-O-O~

When Maka comes home, several things become apparent the second she steps through the door.

One being that Soul's jacket and shoes are stuffed in the corner behind the door. She growls to herself, but, she dully notes that he'll probably try to sneak out and away from her later, and left them there for that specific reason. Maka doesn't put too much thought into that, though, because the next thing has suddenly occurred to her.

Second thing being, she is not greeted by her weapon, a _very_ unusual thing that only occurs when he's locked himself in his room, occupying the bathroom, or simply listening to his music too loud to hear her. Today, though, as she begins to walk towards the sofa to plop down, she nearly screams she sees a mess of white fur on the arm of the couch, and a deep groan to accommodate a shifting, sleeping body that can only be known as Soul. His left leg drops to the floor, and he grunts as she makes her way over to him after hanging up her coat, and nudges his shoulder.

"There's this really revolutionary thing, Soul. It's called a "bed" and normal people use it to sleep on, so they don't have to sleep out on the couch. It's pretty neat, actually."

Her sarcasm is what keeps him from clinging helplessly to sleep, and he cracks a ruby eye open to shoot his meister a sleepy glare. A smile only returns his gaze as she wills him to sit up with a magical touch of her hands to his back.

"I won't bother you again if you move for me," she promises, helping him up off the sofa and tugging his hand gently as she leads his drunken-like staggering legs to his room. Soul stares at their connected hands, confused at the affection she shows him; even though she thinks he's stupid enough not to notice. This thought, however, makes his free hand touch up at his cheekbone, wondering if the ghost of her lips on his skin was simply a hallucination from sleep withdrawals. He knows it'd be stupid to ask her, anyway, so he keeps his mouth shut, and sighs happily when she lets him fall freely onto the soft-as-fuck mattress and pillows that is his bed. He doesn't even bother getting under the covers, only smothering his face into the mess of AXE-scented heaven.

Maka, however, finds her feet stuck, and unable to turn the hell around to leave him alone. A smile sits on her lips as she notices how tired he is, but it quickly fades once she remembers his situation, and why willing-ness isn't a very good thing, in his case. She watches him snuggle deeper into his bed, before turning towards her, crimson eyes peering over a mess of white pillows and sheets.

"Take a picture, it'll last much longer."

She frowns at him, but thinks it'd be rude to Maka Chop someone so exhausted, so she only rolls her eyes at her weapon. Her feet shift towards the door, deciding his tone of voice is rather obnoxious, and she should let him be for the rest of the morning…afternoon… whatever. But it's when she's turning towards the ajar door, her wrist is seized tightly, which pulls out a gasp from her throat as she snaps her gaze back at Soul, whose face is currently smashed deep into his pillows in embarrassment. It occurs to Maka that this isn't normal "Mr. Cool" behavior, and that scares her, until her brain finally figures out what this is.

He's asking her to stay with him.

Even though he's too cool to admit it with words, she feels a pang of guilt in her heartstrings, and soon finds herself sitting beside, and bringing herself to lie beside his warm form, strong piano-playing fingers releasing her from their grasp before finding the actual part of her _actual_ hand, and lacing their fingers together gently and silently.

He's scared. He might not admit the fact, but Soul is, as a matter of fact, scared shitless. Her warmth and soothing actions are the only thing—he fears—that keep the black blood at bay from consuming the whole of his sanity in only messy gulp. This thought, as well as trying to push sleep away, makes the scythe tighten his grip on Maka's smooth, ungloved hand. It's a treat, he won't lie, he likes to indulge in, especially at times like this, when he knows she won't refuse what he asks of her.

Like, lying in his bed, and holding her fingers in an affectionate death grip.

It's until he peeks his head out from the blackness of being shoved into a pillow, Soul looks at his meister, only to see she's fallen asleep. Her face looks at perfect peace, pink lips drawn into a relaxed line, her eyebrows set in a neutral position on her face. He feels alone without her conscious, which is probably why he allows himself to nudge closer to her on his bed, his nose buried in the hollow of her neck, against her jugular, and wait for sleep to finally possess him for the rest of the morning.

~O-O-O-O~

His nap is short-lived.

A clawing sensation in his shoulders and side, a fit of growling, and a dull pain in the back of his head makes crimson eyes peek open to search his surroundings. Sure enough, he's on the floor instead of his bed, and Blair is standing beside said piece of furniture. Maka curls up in his covers, whining about it "being too **early** for stupid cats to ruin her sleep." She seems to tune the cat out, though, and drifts back off.

The cat places her nimble hands on her strongly defined hips as she glowers down at Soul, her cat-like, fiery irises demanding answers from the weapon.

"What were you two doing?" She snaps, her pink lipstick-painted lips drawing into a thin, displeased line. Soul arches a brow at her as he sits up, his hand moving to rub the throbbing spot on the back of his head.

"What did it _look like_, cat?" He asked her, his voice raspy from his actually-pleasant sleep.

Her eyes narrow, a knowing gleam in them. It takes Soul a moment of staring at those… _enormous _breasts, then moving up to her face to notice that look, and he instantly finds himself spluttering and shaking his head furiously at her silent accusation.

"Not _that_!" He fires back, but it comes out as more of a whining noise. When he pleads over and over that he "would never be caught doing **that** with **her**" and "she's my meister, nothing else" enough for the feline to believe, her angry lips curve into a smile, and she nods in approval.

"Good! You two don't need to be practicing the horizontal mambo while you have more important things to be focused on!" She chimes, her voice holding a certain softness to it, as if a sister praising a brother.

"You don't need a litter of little scythe-y boys and Maka-Chan's to be cooping here, either~" she adds, a giggle bubbling in her throat when she notices the shade of violet Soul's face has turned. She wiggles her fingers in a little wave, before being consumed in a poof of lavender smoke, a small black cat escaping the room with a fit of mews that sounded eerily like giggles.

Soul, however, sits on the floor, unamused with the morning—no, it's actually past one in the afternoon, he notes—nap interruption. _Such a stupid cat…_ He thinks with a scowl towards the wall, before placing his elbows up on the side of the bed to get a glimpse at his meister. Sure enough, she's still asleep, her blonde pigtails undone and spilled angelically across the white pillow. Her perfect little hands are relaxed, held in front of her face, as if she's trying to cradle them to her chest. Her mile long legs, brought up at a slight bend.

The scythe smirks at her form, though, doesn't breathe a word as he soundlessly climbs back into his bed beside her. Her wavelength is welcoming, comforting, and he _wants_ that feeling wrapped around him, against his chest, cradled securely in his arms.

And he does just that.

She mumbles in her sleep a few slurred words he doesn't quite catch, but that's alright. Soul pulls his meister close, until it is she who is snoozing against the hollow of his neck. His hand tangles gently in blonde locks, and he grins coyly when she nearly purrs in his arms, snuggling her way against him.

It is in this moment, Soul realizes that this, the bundle of smarts, warmth and strength, is his pure ideal of "beauty". And that if he had to be insomnia-stricken and insane, he'd want to be it with no one else but his meister.

"Thank you," he breathes against the crown of her scalp, closing his eyes in peace with a gentle smile curving his lips. She's here. She'll _always_ be here.

She's all he'll ever need.


	3. Treasure

Maka's voice is calling him.

He cracks his eyes open to see her face, staring directly at his. A grin is on her perfect little lips, and her hand comes to play with a lock of snow white bangs that rests against his ear. Soul feels a smirk on his own lips, and carefully, allows his hand to sneak around her waist. She purrs against him, like a _fucking kitten_, and snuggles her head just under the arch of his jaw.

She speaks to him, her tone low—a whisper—but her words are not caught by his ears. He, instead, pulls her closer, letting her hips drift close to dangerous waters. Soul smirks, planting a kiss on her cheek, and doing so again, and again. His lips drift down, across her jaw line, into the dip of her slender neck, all over her shoulder. She mewls against him, arching towards his hips happily, her hand clawing into his hair with approving tugs.

A growl rumbles his vocal chords, and nimble fingers slowly tease their way under the hem of her nightshirt, petting against warm flesh. She's just so _warm_ here, though, he can't feel his hand anymore. But, it's little to nothing, compared to the delightful little whimpers and moans she's making under his lips. He pressed against her, his hand pressing tighter against her side and—

She screams.

She _screams_.

Sticky, thick liquid makes its presence known between his fingers, coating his limb from the wrist down. In confusion, he pulls his arm away from her body, in order to see the syrup-like blood drip slowly down _his scythe blade_. He only notes it actually is blood when it stains the black shine of his weapon-state, the color almost the same shade as the red of himself.

Soul looks down between them frantically as he allows his arm to transform back, his arm coated in her scarlet color up to his forearm. Sure enough, when he gets a full looks at her torso, there's a dark red blotch in her shirt. Maka screams again when he turned her over onto her stomach, only to gasp in horror.

An enormous hole in her back.

He's stabbed her. _Unwillingly_ put her in so much pain.

Her hand latches onto the collar of his shirt in a death grip, her teeth gritted as she whips her head up to peer into his eyes. Viridian irises are filled with fear and pain as tears run down her cheeks, and Maka shudders violently as she holds herself up against him, trying to suck in enough air to scream at him again in desperation.

"_Help me, Soul!_"

He wakes with a scream, bolting upright in his bed.

His first reaction, of course, is to look around, and somehow **burn** it into his mind that he is, in fact, awake and there is, in fact, no harm done, like he's just witnessed in his sleep. But, when Soul looks to his right, there is no sleeping meister beside him, and he fears the worst. Worry ties his stomach up in several knots, and within the span of a few seconds, he up and out of bed, sprinting down the hall to the bathroom to kneel before and heave into the toilet.

In fact, his mind is reeling so fast, Soul doesn't even notice when Maka bolts into the bathroom, shuffling towards him and leaning down beside him, letting her hands pull his hair away from his face as he vomits. She pets him and shushes him, until the scythe lifts his head up a bit, slamming the handle down to flush as he hoists himself off from the floor. Maka steps back from him as he washes his hands, and splashes water onto his face with a tired hiss.

"Soul? What's wrong? Do you feel okay?"

Her questions go unanswered as he looks into the mirror, crimson eyes staring at _her_ reflection, not his. Maka blinks when she notices this, her head tilting silently, but as she slowly understands his fear, she smiles at him, and loops her arms around his waist. The action leaves him staring at her with bulging eyes, but Maka only presses her cheek to his shoulder affectionately.

"I didn't go anywhere, Soul. I won't."

Her arms fall back to her sides, and a smile crawls onto her face as Soul turns around to fully face her, his own trademark grin growing. A tsk makes itself known from his mouth, and he shakes his head with a light, playful chuckle.

"You're something else."

In the next few moments they stare at one another to figure out _what the fuck just transpired_, Soul's nose crinkles, and he makes a disgusted face at her as he pokes his head out into the hall, looking around for something. Maka pouts at him, but does the same with sticking her head out into the open hall as well. The distinct smell of burnt nearly smacks her in the face, and she coughs at it.

"What is _that?_" Soul asks, his tone firm as he steps out into the hall, making his way into the kitchen. Only then does Maka's mind put it together, and she shoves him into the wall, sprinting her way into the kitchen with her bare feet slipping and sliding on tile.

"Dinner!" She cries out loud. A series of crashes, chimes and clatters fill the apartment, and make Soul's toes curl up. He finally finds himself able to trail after her, and when he sees her sticking a smoldering frying pan under the sink faucet, he runs to stop her.

"Wait! Wait!" He shouts, rather loudly, as he yanks her arms back, snagging the silver pan out of her hand and setting it down on the stove with a clatter.

"You can't put it directly in water, or it'll spit."

Maka snorts at him, her face rather arrogant as she scoffs, and lets a hand sit on the nook of her hip in disapproval as he places the two dishes she'd set out back into the cupboards. Not like they'll be needing them, by the looks of the charred object—which, he thinks is supposed to be a pork chop—that resides in their frying pan.

"And how would _you_ know that, mister I-can-burn-anything-I-touch?"

Soul only laughs at her response, ruffling her bangs affectionately as he turns to deposit himself in the orange cushions that make up their sofa. He'll admit, it's small and rather uncomfortable, but nothing beats lounging about on it when Maka's out in the midst of the apartment, happy to have his lazy-ass company with her.

Maka, however, sets to cleaning up the kitchen, which includes doing dishes, to his chagrin. This is only so, because the prior vomiting to the food episode left him with a massive migraine, and her smashing and clanging dishes and pans together is **not** helping him in the slightest. But, he won't complain. Not until she unessicarily drops the frying pan into the sink, the sound loud enough to declare a World War Three in the blood vessels of Soul's brain.

He groans out at her outburst, the heels of his hands digging into his forehead to try and relieve the pressure that builds behind his skull. His meister, however, pokes her head from the kitchen to check on him, frowning at the sight of her scythe.

"Soul? What's wrong?"

It amuses him how bipolar she can be, what with her worry, from arrogance, to snotty-ness, and back to worry again, all in less than ten minutes. However, he's too busy keeping his eyes slammed shut to really pay much attention to her, but when the sound of running water no longer hits his ears, he sighs in relief.

After a few seconds of perfect silence, feet shuffle from the tile floored kitchen to the wooden living room floor. Soul grunts when Maka sits carefully on the couch beside him, letting his legs rest over her lap as she frowns at him. The position seems comfortable on both parties accounts, and it makes Soul wonder about what they'd be called.

Friends with benefits? No, they don't have sex. They don't even kiss. Hell, they barely hug, exclude coming home after long trips to visit families and certain holiday gatherings and such. The ruling out of this must also get rid of "fuckbuddies" right off the bat as well.

They're more than just friends. That's all he can think of. Not in an actual relationship, too distant to actually try to commit to each other, and much too busy with their life as a team to clutter it with nonsense, with kisses on the cheeks and sleeping in the same bed…

Wait. They already do that.

Isn't that the **definition** of "together"?

Uggggh. This topic is making his head hurt even more than it already does. His mind should just, shut up for awhile. That'd be nice. For once.

"You alright, Soul?"

Soul blinks a bit, looking at his meister, who seems hopelessly confused with the fact he's been staring off into space with a seething-sort of expression on his face. Hah, he hadn't even noticed until she arched a blonde eyebrow at him, giving a small jolt of her head in question at his actions.

"Headache," He tells her, his voice softer than usual, in fear of rattling his skull and causing himself even more pain. Maka smiles sympathetically at him, patting his shin gently.

_"She won't live forever."_

Soul jumps up, crimson eyes wide in shock. A voice? But who? His glance shifts to Maka, who's staring at him as if he's sprouted another head. Which, in her defense, is pretty normal, for a guy who'd just been lounging from a headache and sprung up with a gasp.

"What's wrong?" She asks; not the first time today.

He stares off, mildly concerned with his mental health for just about the first time in **ever**. Hell, Soul hadn't even registered much was wrong with him—besides the insomnia—until this very moment, when the unknown voice spoke.

"I… Yeah, I'm just, I'm fine." He splutters, shaking his head slowly as he eases his tired body back down to the sofa. This is too much to handle, especially with a headache and his single-ness on the line as well. So, he'll try to do what he's best at: Forgetting it. Dropping the whole thing cold, until it really comes back to nip him in the bud.

Maka frowns at him, before carefully nudging his legs up off her lap, so she can get up. Soul watches her quietly as she trots to her room, slinks back into the kitchen, carefully gets a glass from the cupboard, and fills it with water from the tap, her hands fiddling with something before she picks up said glass, and shuffles back to him, her offering being the glass of water.

"Drink," she commands. Her voice, that face…he must obey. Robotically, his hand jolts out, taking the cup from her and downing the whole glass within a span of a few seconds. She smiled sweetly at him—although to him, it looks like a knowing, sad smile—and takes the glass back to set on the coffee table. Within a span of twenty seconds, he finds himself lying back, Maka nestled between his arm that rests on her back, and his torso. She's warm (and tiny!) against him, and Soul finds her presence a blessing in his mass confusion and worry over himself.

The two teens are silent for a long amount of time, though, the silence is a welcomed one. The only noises to be heard are the in-beat time of their breathing and cars passing through the darkening streets of night in Death City. It's a peace neither Soul or Maka as ever seemed to noticed, only due to the fact of their entirely-too hustle-bustle lives. Slowing down is a change of pace for the team, and a welcomed one at that.

It isn't until Maka hears soft snoring does she sit up on her elbows to look at her weapon, and smile in relief. He's asleep, no tears, fights, yelling, lying or secretive drugging involved. It makes her heart swell with pride, and she gently maneuvers Soul on the couch so he's lying on his back more comfortably. She giggles silently to herself at the fact anywhere past his shins hangs off the couch, but makes sure she is quiet when she lifts his arm that'd been draped around her in order to snuggle closer to him.

She makes sure there is no space between them; she can't tell where they're artificially connected, and she **likes** that. The fact his calm, his warmth envelopes her as such a close and long-wanted position makes her smile and bury her nose into the fabric of his shirt. Her nose, however, is greeted with the pungent smell of AXE body spray.

Maka quickly realizes that there can't be anything pungent about it, if it's Soul's.

Sleep drapes over her as she holds him close, almost afraid to let him go. Her weapon, her dearest friend…her **everything**. As long as they remain partners—which Soul has told her, "Will be _forever_ because cool guys can't ever leave their partners, and if we split, I'm pretty sure you'll still have my laundry stuck to yours."—he will continue to be her entire life, her whole meaning of "hard work" placed into one simple human being that is her very own scythe. She will not give him up for anything, and that includes death, and black blood, and insanity.

Soul is her treasure.

"_My_ treasure…" she murmurs, and when Maka decides she rather likes the way each letter of her sentence fragment rolls off her tongue into his side, she smiles tiredly to herself, and finally lets her eyelids close for the evening, letting the pulsing of his heart lull her into the shallow tides of slumber.

_Mine._

~O-O-O-O~

** Oh god… I'm sorry, that chapter was pretty much a waste of your time. **

** It'll pick up more, I SWEAR. It's just, urgh, too stressed, might come back and edit this, but I'm working on the next one right now, and urrrrrgh, school is just really hectic. My apologizes, again, but please please keep faith! And thank you to all who're keeping up with this, you're AMAZING.**


	4. Listen

He regrets falling asleep on the sofa. Well, not with Maka; but the sofa was a no-no.

Soul awakes at… sometime before the sun has completely risen and while Blair is home, scampering about to get her things ready for "work". The scythe does not acknowledge her employment, because "being a sold-out town _whore_ isn't really a nice—or proper—line of work".

After a few moments of pretending he's asleep with Maka on top of him,(she must've moved during the night, he thinks quickly to avoid any un-needed excitement)snuggling into his chest with her quiet breaths, he feels Blair lean over the back of the couch. The weapon tenses up, ready to jump the fuck out of the way, but instead, the cat only brushes blonde hair from Maka's cheek, purring contently, before she scurries out the door, closing it with a controlled little "_click_".

"Maka," he whispers, grimacing at how his voice sounds like grinding glass shards this early in the morning. Nonetheless, Maka only grunts out tiredly in response, not opening her eyes nor attempting to move, but instead cuddling **closer** to her scythe.

"Yes...?" She drawls, talking into his chest.

"Move." He tells her, tonelessly, as he wriggles under her for emphasis. "I need to piss."

He can feel when she blushes against him; it makes a grin crack on his lips as she slowly sits up, brushing down her matted hair and offering a tiny smile. "Sorry," she murmurs, thin shoulders shrugging shyly at her error. Soul only rolls his eyes, and hoists himself up to relieve himself.

It is then Maka regretfully remembers they do, indeed, have to go to class today. Normally she'd be excited for a change to scurry away from Soul for an hour at the most during classes at Shibusen, but recent feelings and interactions between both herself and Soul would gladly like to differ. It makes her stomach knot a million different ways, believing that for a single moment, Soul could actually like an abusive, chest-lacking and **boring** girl such as herself. She should be honored she at least has his partnership, although they'd succeeded in making Soul a Deathscythe not two months ago, and not obsessed with gaining him completely, heart, mind, and soul.

_Such a stupid thing to wish for…_ She tells herself, a mental assurance of thousands of women her papa had abandoned her and her mama to flirt and sleep about.

But Soul wouldn't be that kind of guy… it'd be uncool to leave your partner; at least, that's what he's told Maka over a billion times. Maybe she should just, give him a chance, instead of running away whenever they start getting much too close for comfort and—

"What're you doing? I thought _you_ said we had class today. Hurry up and get ready," said weapon scolds with a toothbrush hanging out of foamy, toothpaste-lathered lips. Maka blinks at him, noting the fact she's been boring holes into the floor with her eyes, and rather flustered with his words, scrambles up to get changed; he's ready before her, a shocking change from usual.

They both skip showering for the morning—it's too late to even start with their broken shower, thanks to Blair and bringing strange men from "work" into the apartment—so gallons of AXE will have to do for Soul, and _Secrets_ for Maka will manage.

Maka's jumping back down the hall, trying to cram her heels into her white boots as her pink uniform tie rests over her shoulder. When she makes it to the door, shoes fully on, Soul rests his hand on the small of her back in an almost-romantic gesture.

Until he shoves her harshly out the door, slamming and locking said door behind both of them before the run full-speed down the complex-building stairs, and outside. The Nevada summer sun already burns through both of them, even without their Spartoi uniform coats. It's a miracle Maka's black leggings don't singe her as she waits for Soul to swing a leg over his tamed orange beast, and make his bike roar to life.

"Maka," he whines, lamely, "get on already and let's _go_. Or do you _want_ us to get in trouble like last week?"

She cringes at the mere mention of their punishment for arriving late last Thursday, because of Blair's inability to set the clocks after she herself manages to ruin their power. But, nonetheless, fearing a repeat of their punishment (which was six laps around the track and holding stacks of textbooks for an hour after) Maka stares at the bike, swallowing dryly as she waits for the courage to get on it already to come, like it does every morning. When it finally hits her, she stumbles forward, sitting shyly behind Soul with jerky arms that come to cling tightly to his torso. She feels him snort a laugh at her, before he zooms off, making her scream into his shoulder blades.

Another perfect morning at the Albarn-Evans residence.

~O-O-O-O~

Blah blah _blahhhh_; that's all Soul hears from Stein's lecture.

The silver-haired meister goes on and on about "perfect resonances" and "amazing differences between all types of weapons" and other boring shit Soul would rather blow his brains out over then actually listen to. His textbook is open, per Maka's request, but the notebook he's supposed to be taking class notes in is only split into music staffs, two out of five covered in an array of black dots and squiggles and other various things from the language of music.

No, Soul doesn't pay attention in this class about 98% of the time. He only really does if A) Maka's speaking about something in front of the class, that makes him perk up and shut up, or B) Stein's talking about something important to Deathscythes, or something like the matter. But, option B comes up without Soul's knowledge, as he scribbles down more music notes. The classroom door slams open, making all the students eyes dart to the culprit.

A measly child, only about twelve or so, stands in the doorway, a note being crushed to death in his hand. Maka leans closer to Soul, her voice a mere whisper as she asks, "What's a lower classmen doing all the way up here?"

She's referring to the levels of classrooms, new students take classes on the ground floor, and it moves up with level and skill. Soul only shrugs, his attention caught, as he sits up. Crimson eyes follow the smaller student, who shyly gives the note to Stein. The professor scans the piece of paper, giving his screw a turn which makes the entire class cringe at the noise.

"Soul," Stein calls. "It seems they want you down in room 14B for a demonstration."

Maka seems ready to get up out of her seat, but Stein catches her, and shakes his head. She blushes, and plops back down, staring dumbfounded at Soul with wide eyes. He admits, it's surprising; most students don't get called out of class unless they're in trouble or their parents have come to pay them a visit.

"Get going, then. Don't make them wait." The professor tells him, calmly, as he turns back to the blackboard, writing down some new equation Soul knows he will have to ask Maka how to do later. He sighs, glancing at the clock on the wall. Only twenty minutes before classes are out for the day anyway, so he can't possibly miss much at the rate Stein teaches. The scythe is up and scrambling to close up his text and notebook with shaky hands, to which Maka places her own, ungloved ones over, pulling the materials away from him with a smile.

"I got your stuff, its okay. Just go," she cheers, shooing him with the flick of a wrist.

Soul's always been a rule-abider to her orders. This one isn't an exception, and he clatters down the steps and out the door, to where the nameless student had left to wait for him. The child nods down the hall, and begins to walk, Soul only following him mindlessly.

"Our teach—I mean, professor, sent for you. She says you and your meister have the highest amount of souls in your entire class."

The scythe's lips crack in his usual lopsided smirk, his hands curling themselves inside his pockets contently as he snorted. "They still keep count after a hundred? Damn."

He had, in fact, been made a Deathscythe no longer than two months ago. And, although Shinigami-Sama had allowed both Soul and Maka the opportunity to graduate in their junior year at the school, Maka had kindly turned him down, Soul reluctantly doing the same. He sort of wished he hadn't, though, when he steps into the classroom with the younger student, said kid leaving to take his seat up in the masses of children. When Soul looks to see the professor, it is Nygus standing there, the shape of a smile folding the white linens on her face.

"Ah, there's the star at the academy infirmary!" She jokes, waving him over with wrapped hands. Soul steps closer to her, and cringes when her hands slap his shoulders to rest. He feels a million pairs of eyes on him, and it makes his heart pound nervously in his chest.

The same rush of being on stage, piano willing at his every command—

"This fine man right here is Soul-Eater; he's one of our juniors here, and our new youngest _Deathscythe_." His eyebrows arch in question at the way the final word rolls off her tongue. "He's only one of three students who've attended here who's an actual scythe…"

Her voice falls on deaf ears, because Soul is too busy staring holes into the ground, afraid of the glances that peer upon him. Sweat runs down the back of his neck, his nervousness making his tie suddenly too tight, and his shirt unbearably hot. But he does not move, doesn't even twitch, as Nygus continues talking about all his accomplishments with her hands gesturing and showing him off _like a fucking hand bag in a shopping center_.

"…Right, Soul?"

When her words finally hit him, Soul looks around, his mind struggling to remember what in the fuck she was rambling about. He glances at the wrapped woman as she steps to his side, her arm giving him a reassuring nudge as she nods for him to speak.

"I, um, yeah, everything she said, I guess."

Nygus lets out a laugh, her head lolling back for a moment before she leans into him to whisper, "I _meant_ for you to tell them what being a weapon is like, Soul."

Confusion crosses his features, and hr furrows his brows at her, giving a quick, tiny glance to the rest of the class before looking back at her.

"But there are meisters here; they don't care about being a weapon."

She shakes her head, dreadlocks swinging as she smirks under her bandages almost slyly. "No, 'fraid not. These are just the weapon students for the incoming year, the meisters are actually in another classroom getting lectured by Professor Sid. They haven't been partnered up yet, so we're getting them used to the school before we do anything of that nature."

Her words are worrying. Since when did the academy hold off on pairing weapons and meisters up? They'd never worked that way before….

But, he pushes his doubts and nerves aside, before he clears his throat to speak: "So, yeah. When you get partnered up, it's pretty beast, as long as you, y'know, like the person and all. But, it's really no doubt you will. And, missions are good, so don't complain about them."

The class stares at him with a newfound fascination, marveling at his simple words. Soul resists the urge to sprint out of the classroom, back to his own and sit happily beside his meister, where he knows he will not be judged. But his feet stand firmly in the place until Nygus pats his back lightly with a hidden smile.

"Thanks a ton—" She is cut off by the sound of the bell (Soul just then understands the "saved by the bell" saying) and chuckles when the mass of students quickly migrate outside to eat their lunches and mingle. Blue eyes look into crimson, and she slaps Soul's arm playfully, laughing louder when he rubs the area; it hurt!

"Get outta here, kid! I've got work to do!"

He snorts, rolling his eyes a bit before scrambling out the doorway himself, weaving through the innumerable amounts of students, talking, eating, sucking face, laughing, fighting. Each cluster is different, and the same applies to his own, when he approaches the bench they've all gathered about for today. Once Maka's eyes find him, she jumps, waving her arm at him with a bright smile. Tsubaki, Black*Star and Kidd also acknowledge him, and they grow smiles, though Black*Star's is much more obnoxious and wider in nature than the other two's.

"Hey, look! It's mister amazing Deathscythe, here to honor us with his presence!" Black*Star hollers, and other students around them all glance at Soul and clap, making the albino cringe as he plops down to sit beside Maka.

"So Soul," Kidd asks curiously, leaning against the bench as he speaks to the scythe, "what did they want you for? A demonstration or something?"

"No, surprisingly. It was Nygus in there, I think she was subbing or something; otherwise, I just didn't know she taught a class. But eh, she was just kinda showing me off…" he trails off, obviously not enjoying the subject. Maka glances at him, and shakes her head a bit at Kidd to get him to hush.

"Well, at least _you_ got out of class!" Black*Star retorts, loudly. "Stein did nothing but write stupid notes on the board for our quiz next week."

"Those weren't stupid, Black*Star!" Tsubaki replies, worriedly as she frowns at him from down on the floor. "It was the chapters we need to study!"

Both blue-haired meister and weapon carry on their shouting/whining war with one another, leaving Maka to rub her temples roughly with her elbows balanced on her knees. Soul looks at her sympathetically, letting his hand rest between her shoulder blades calmly.

"Ooh! Ooh! Sis, look! Lookit Soul, sissy!" Patty nearly screams out, tugging her sibling's tiny red shirt collar to get her to pay attention to Soul's actions. "Soul's gonna give Maka cooties if he keeps touching her!"

Liz, to her chagrin, had been peacefully sipping at her soda, which spurted from her mouth as she looked up to Soul from the floor where she sat with Patty. Maka sits up, slamming Souls' hand against the back of the bench and making her weapon howl, yanking the appendage back to cradle it against his chest.

"That hurt, stupid!" He fires at her, holding his hand in his other painfully.

Maka glares at him, her cheeks a certain degree of red, before she points furiously at Patty, her glare slowly turning into a dearly one as she strains her arm to point even further. "She started it!"

Patty giggles like an idiot, Liz sniffling and coughing from the soda that she'd spit out and wiping herself off with a napkin Kidd offered her. Before Maka has the chance to yell something back at her, the bell rings to end their free period. Soul sighs, and slouches back as he sits. Since both Maka and himself had signed up for morning courses, they have the privilege of sneaking home at lunch and not missing any classes.

As the rest of their group, and the other students coming back from their break, begin filtering inside, Soul grunts when Maka's bag is slung into his lap, the familiar sensation of **getting punched in the junk** pinging up to his mind in seconds. He bites his lip until it bleeds, then bites it again elsewhere in order to not scream and howl at his meister.

"What're you doing?" He grits through clenched teeth.

She slips a familiar textbook and black notebook into her white bag assorted with many other goodies and such as she speaks calmly. "Your books, I'll carry them for you."

He tried to protest, but when she shoots him a small, knowing glare, he is silent, and only lets her sling her bag over shoulder as she stands up, and turns to offer him a hand. He rolls his eyes at her, swatting her hand away and getting up of his own accord. He might be exhausted, but he can still walk, dammit.

They set off back towards their apartment, the second the teens step into the sun the blinding Nevada heat slapping them in the face. It's muggy and burns at their pores, but neither complains. It's nothing compared to battle scars, that's for damn sure.

_"Like that pretty little number you've got drawn across your chest?"_

Soul freezes in his tracks, eyes wide as he looks around. Who was that **voice**? Even though this is his second time hearing it, it scares him, and he wants to get rid of the thing before it drives him completely insane.

But, Maka catches him in the middle of his confused, dazed moment, turning around to tap his shoulder with shy hands. Her lips pout out in curiosity at him, and she tugs his sleeve when she doesn't respond to the brush of her fingertips.

"Soul? Soul, what's wrong?"

His throat is dry when he attempts to speak, but he manages to croak out a small, "Nothing, I'm fine."

Maka frowns at him, before she loops her arm through his, her pretty pink lips still in the pout as she does so and her cheeks burning a light pink. Sol only looks at her, still a bit disoriented, and walks beside her, nearly staggering with each step they take back towards the apartment.

~O-O-O-O~

When they finally get inside the apartment, freezing air greets them at the door.

Maka sighs in content, throwing her messenger bag down to the floor by both their shoes, her arms held out as if she's attempting to fly in the cool breeze that flows out of the A/C vents in the multicolored (and rather ugly-looking) walls. Soul just smirks at her, taking an exhausted seat on the couch, undoing his tie and every single button that keeps his shirt held together.

His scar stares up at him when he looks down, and that voice tugs at the back of his mind, something he cannot forget so easily.

Soul visibly jumps when Maka plops down beside him, though. A smile is plastered on her lips as she shrugs her shoulders shyly, pulling some of her longer bangs behind her ear. The scythe dully notes their thighs are pressed together, and she suddenly feels insanely close. But it doesn't bother him, she's small and warm, and _he likes that_.

_"Won't it be nice to see her blood and mangled in your dreams, Rico Suave?"_

He jolts back; breathing labored as if he's just ran a mile. Pianist fingers run through bleach-colored hair, trying to calm himself down. But Maka's already on that task, tugging his shoulders to cradle his head to her chest. The power she holds over him is too much for him to pull away from, and he lets his cheek be pressed to her clavicle, her hand covering his other ear that faces away from her.

"Listen to me," she breathes into his hair, her warm breath tickling the back of his neck and scalp. "Just listen to me for now. Listen to my heart."

He takes her advice, and zeros in on her pulse. Ba-_dum_, ba-_dum_; it's a slowing rhythm; probably because of the scare he just gave her not five minutes prior. Her smooth palms pet down his hair, and in a matter of seconds, his arms find their way to snake around her tightly, fingers fisting at her uniform.

"I don't like seeing you like this," she whispers. Soul can still hear the tears in her voice, though. He fists tighter at her shirt, needy for more hugs, pets—

Wait, **what**?

Oh no. Soul quickly realizes what he's doing, what he wants, and how uncool it is. He's a cuddler. He's a cuddle-**slut**, more like it. They're not even dating! She's just his meister, who isn't even his own anymore! He has no right to be clinging to her, to be burdening her with such trauma and hurt.

But when he tries to pull away from her, she stops him, her hands locking around his shoulders and head, pinning him to her chest. He makes a muffled noise against her, but she ignores him, pressing her face against the hairline of his neck, her eyes screwed shut.

Why can't he understand her affection?

_"You really __are__ dumb, aren't you, Evans?"_

Soul growls against her. This time when the voice speaks, it makes his head explode with pain. His low, choked out howls of pain are stifled by her chest (which, he must admit, isn't as flat as it looks; at least not when he's face is pressed against it) while her hands pet him and her voice calls him back.

She knows what's wrong. Every time the voice talks, though Maka doesn't hear it, his wavelength stops briefly, like a stutter. Then it shoots out, sending a surge through her she could never ignore. It rattles her very being, and she feels sorry for Soul.

This is her fault.

"Soul…" she murmurs, brushing a bit of his hair from his face as tears spill out from her narrowed eyes. Crimson irises peer up at her from her chest, and when she presses her lips to his cheek in a kiss, she smiles sadly when her tears drip onto his flawless face.

"I messed up."

"_We_. _We_ messed up this time, Maka."

A silence falls over them. Maka's sniffles seem as loud as thunder in the quiet they share, and Soul only keeps his face against her torso, afraid to move in fear of triggering another painful jab from the unknown voice. He can't find the right words to explain how much he doesn't care what she thinks, because she was worth every bit of jumping in front of Crona for. And how he'd do it a hundred times, until he was absolute nothingness.

_…Isn't that love, though? _

~O-O-O-O~

** …HOLYSHITYAYIDIDIT.**

** This. Chapter. Was. So. Hard. To. Write. You. Just. Have. No. Freaking. Idea. ;n; But I did it, it's over. Sorry if it's er, not up-to-standards… but, I needed to put a lot in here, or else it would've taken too long and the plot would be so slow and awkward-moving and—I just had to do it this way.**

** Sorry if I ruined your eyes for a few days or whatnot. But thank you for those who are following this. You guys are so sweet. :3**


	5. Realization

Soul does not sleep. Again.

He, instead, stares up at his whiter-than-anything ceiling, which seems to almost brighten in the dark of the night. If it weren't nightmares keeping him from closing his eyes and drifting off, it'd be the fact that his mind is currently racing a thousand miles a minute over the whole breakdown Maka had over him a few hours ago. Four hours, to be exact, Soul notices when he looks at his alarm clock. It's 12:57 a.m.

The tears that had fallen down her cheeks, only to soak his own were just so _real_. He reaches up to touch his face at the memory, making sure there are no more. The hurt in her voice as she cried to him was just short of heart-stopping. Didn't she understand that he did like this, either? It didn't seem like she did…

But, aside from her episode that had occurred, Soul found himself wondering about other things, too.

Like, what it would be like, to share a relationship with Maka. One that surpassed just the drawn-out boundaries for weapons-meister pairs. Shibusen strongly suggested that partners who dated were serious about said relationship, because broken hearts lead only to reckless decisions, which could lead to split up partners, and other things like that. But Soul could take it seriously; he takes anything seriously if it involves Maka.

But she would never go for anything like that. He knows she wouldn't. Because of her dumbass dad, who's screwed her up for life with his womanizing ways, making her fear all other men are the same as him. Soul understands she can't see things his way, though, so he won't stop her way of thinking.

He'll still try to win her over, he decides, when the clock lights a bright red 2:17 a.m. at him the second time he turns to look.

_"Look who's having trouble sleeping. __Again__."_

"Who are you?" Soul whispers to the darkness, to the voice inside his head. "Tell me a name."

_"Why, are you saying you've forgotten me? Evans, I'm shocked!"_

Soul's room disappears around him. Darkness consumes his vision for a few moments, before he finds himself standing upright. Itchy cloth covers him, and he looks down to see that… same, familiar pinstripe suit….

Why is this so familiar?

His shoes click calmly on the red and black checkered floor tile as he makes his way towards the center of the… Black Room? Is that what this place is called? It's the only name that sounds right on his lips, anyway. The piano that resides in the corner makes him remember his practice studio as a child, and how this place fairly well ghosts it. With the checkered floor tiles, curtains hanging from the walls and the smell of cleaner filling his nostrils, anyway.

It's absolutely heart-stopping when he sees **himself** walking out from behind a cluster of red velvet, wearing a sly, devilish, not-Soul like grin as he tugs at the knot of his tie. Although he is only made up of grays, blacks and whites, the full-color Soul can't help the fear the knots his stomach. Why does this all seem so familiar?

"Stupid host," colorless Soul drawls. His voice sounds nothing like the real deal, it's too thick and crackly to even compare.

And then, Soul is washed over with memories of this place. How could he **ever** have forgotten?

He remembers the demon in the corner, the piano that nearly hurt to play, how Maka had saved him from it all when he was too stupid to fight for himself against his insanity. He remembers everything in a span of three seconds, gasping when his vision finally seems clear, and looks directly at the demon, whom has reverted to his normal, short self.

"I can't believe you've forgotten me. I feel so… _unwanted._" Sharp teeth click together as he grins sadistically at Soul, taking a seat up on the piano bench. The scythe, however, only stands with a hand in his pocket, glaring coldly at the demon.

"We fixed this. This issue is settled." Soul growls, looking around cautiously. "So just show me where the door is and we'll—"

"Door?" The red imp interjects, before bursting out into crude, spiteful cackling that makes Soul cringe back, his hearing trying **not** to go bad at the noise.

"Why would think there's a door, Evans, if you do not see one in plain sight? This is your mind, my boy, you're the one calling the shots behind this vision, just like all the others," the demon elaborates for Soul. The weapon dully notes how often the creature uses his oversized hands when he talks.

"So?" Soul grits out between clenched teeth, his hands balled into fists at his side. "What's this visit for? Gonna give me a lecture? Or tell me about how great you'll make everything for me if I let you? We've had this conversation a million times, I'm NOT interested in—"

"That's simple, Evans. You're sleeping. So, in order to avoid the horrors behind your eyelids, you must've conjured up another visit with myself."

Soul only stares, as if the demon had spoken in perfect Korean to him. Silence fills the rather-cold room, and both stare at each other, until the weapon shakes his head.

"No. No, no, no," he chants, his fingers reaching up to tangle in his mess of colorless hair as he paces in random directions, trying to focus hard enough in order to make some sort of escape from this terrible, terrible room that holds him captive. The walls feel like they're closing in, and it makes Soul's heart rate skyrocket and his panic worsen. The demon laughs from somewhere behind him, (he can't tell anymore) the sound echoing off any and everything in the shrinking room. Soul finally falls to his knees, then onto his side, curling up as he tugs his hair, growling and muttering and squeezing his eyes shut to just _get_ _away_ from this place—!

"Soul!"

When he opens his eyes again, Maka is straddling his lap in the dark of his room, grabbing him by the sleeves of his shirt. He looks around, making sure his room is really his and won't do any unwanted or un-natural things as he lies here. As his breathing slows, the scythe looks back up at his meister, who's preoccupied herself with stroking his hair. He pulls her down, to lie beside him, and she only flops down under his hands.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his arm snaking around her waist to pull her back against his front. She flips around, to face him, their noses merely inches apart, but it doesn't seem to matter. She pets his hair back, stroking his cheek every now and then with a tiny, sad smile.

"You don't have to be sorry; it's not your fault."

He sighs, his thumb stroking at the dip of her waist while she cuddles closer into him, pressing a kiss against his Adam's apple, which makes him jolt from the sensitivity of her warm lips brushing oh-so lightly against his flesh—

He can't think like that. If he did, and so happened to pop a boner, Maka might never let him live it down. Or worse, she'd be **afraid** of him, and how are you supposed to catch a girl who's afraid of your little amigo?

Maka ducks her head to rest against his chest, pressing herself completely against him. The way her small torso expands and collapses as she breathes fascinates Soul as he presses his lips to her forehead in a resemblance of a kiss. He likes it when she sleeps with him…literally. Her wavelength just, soothes him, makes him calm and relaxed. But what's even better is when he can feel her against him, like this, her breaths hitting his shoulder and her silky hair spilling across _his_ pillow.

Soul might not understand a lot, but what he does understand in the moment when Maka curls up like a cat in its owners' lap is how much he does, in fact, love this girl. He remembers how they spoke of this so long ago, like such a thing was taboo. But he loves everything there is about the little blonde in his arms, and accepts this the moment she cracks an eye open to glance at him and smile and rub his shoulder comfortingly.

"Maka."

Her head tilts up to look at him; he likes the way those emerald eyes glisten from the light of the moon from his window. Both stare at each other for awhile, words not needing to be said over the silent channel that is… them. But when Soul can't take anymore, and needs to show her, he presses their lips together, and holds them like that.

Maka makes a tiny squeak into his mouth, though, she does not pull away. He can legitimately feel the heat that comes from her blushing cheeks, as he carefully moves his lips against hers. He does a good job, he'd like to think, not shoving his tongue down her throat, but merely swiping it against her slightly-parted lips a few times, not daring to go any farther than that.

When they pull away, Maka stares at him with wide, confused eyes, reaching up to touch her bottom lip, which is rather cold without his lips covering them. Soul smiles at her, but she only buries her face into him to hide her embarrassment.

"Sorry," he says, rather lamely, "if you didn't like that."

Soul feels her shake her head a bit against him, but her grip around him tightens, and he assumes she's done talking about it for now. He won't pry, because cool guys don't need to, and stares off. He barely notices when she falls asleep, and when he himself is lulled into sleep by her calming breathing and touch.

Before he slips away, though, he kisses her forehead lightly, mouthing a simple, "I love you," to her before he is completely out beside her.

~O-O-O-O~

Blair grabs the handle of Soul's door in the morning, not noting Maka isn't up and cooking by now, and opens it with ease. Her little wake-up routine for the boy always put her in a good mood, not because she enjoyed seeing Sol get the living piss beat out of him by his female roommate, but because she liked being around the boy, even if he didn't really pleasure her company.

But when she sees Maka curled up with Soul under his blankets, the cat freezes in her tracks, praying she didn't wake the jumble of teenagers up. A smile cracks on her pinked lips, and she steps back and out of his room, grabbing the doorhandle and closing the door with a controlled 'click'.

When the feline feels she is no longer in danger of waking the teens up, she makes a squeal sort of noise, jumping up with a grin.

"Blair was right!" She whisper- cheered for herself, pumping a fist up in the air. "Blair was right, Blair was right!"

With her new source of enjoyment for the day, the purple-haired vixen grabbed her bag from the kitchen table, where she had left it when she came in a few hours prior, slipped her boots back on, and nearly skipped out the front door, making sure to close it quietly as to not wake the sleeping duo. She made her way down the street, to Chupacabra's to collect her winnings for the bet she'd just won.

Too bad for Maka and Soul, Spirit just so happened to have taken shelter in the establishment as Blair rattled off about her morning discovery to her co-workers, and nearly lost his head at the news.


End file.
